Butterfly's Revenge
by Linnet
Summary: Sara takes a vacation and visits an old friend. Grissom-Sara, eventually
1. Default Chapter

Summary: Sara needs a break. GSR, though Grissom won't appear in the fic until some time later.   
  
A/N: None, really, though as this is my first chaptered fic, advice is welcome.  
  
Sometimes I can forget, for little blips of time. When I'm out in the field, examining the evidence, talking to a suspect--my instincts take over, and I forget. Work has been my distraction whenever there's something in my life that I don't want to think about. In high school, when my older brother was hit by a car and ended up hospitalized for two months, I flung myself into my schoolwork. By the time he had recovered, I'd chosen a career for myself.  
  
It's a bit of sick irony, then, that the thing I want to forget is a part of my job. He's always there, it seems, though we hardly ever work together anymore. Maybe he's only trying to be helpful. Perhaps he knows that seeing him is akin to being a veterinarian allergic to dogs. A key element of my work environment is almost physically painful to me now. For a day or so I toyed with the idea that he was trying to push me at Nick--that the fact that I always seemed to be working with the younger criminalist meant something. I threw that idea out almost instantly, though. I couldn't imagine Grissom being that calculating when it came to human relations.  
  
I think that he thought I was acting childishly when I put in for the leave of absence. In fact, that was one of the more mature things I've done in my relationship with him--only, true to form, I allowed his gesture to pull me back. If I couldn't be with him, if seeing him only made it worse, then why was I staying? I could certainly get a job elsewhere--there were no real career advantages to staying where I was. I couldn't escape the truth--I was there because he wanted me there.  
  
It wasn't true, no matter what I told myself, that he'd behaved particularly poorly. He'd flirted with me, of course, but it wasn't his fault that I'd been so stupid as to let it affect me. My mouth curled sardonically. 'Let it affect me.' 'The thing that I wanted to forget'. I think of him in euphemisms now, my mind skittering over his name, and I hadn't even verbalised the truth in my own head. Not until last week.  
  
It had been nothing--we'd been working on a case together, and I'd made an observation that gave the problem a whole new angle. He'd looked incredulous for a moment; then he'd smiled at me. Nothing that he hadn't done before, but my stomach lurched and I felt a combination of understanding and nausea as something crystallized in my mind. 'Sara Sidle,' it said, 'You are in love with this man, and you'll never get over him if you see him every day.'  
  
I wasn't at the point where I could face the idea of never seeing him again. The idea of not seeing him for two weeks was bad enough, but if I meant to get over him, then I had to do something about it. Even if there'd been some sort of support group ("My name is Sara, and I'm addicted to...") I wouldn't have gone. This was my problem.   
  
It was only the flight attendant's landing announcement that snapped me out of my Woman Power reverie. Well, I told myself, when this was all over, I'd have enough material to write a CD full of empowerment songs. Despite myself, I felt anticipation begin to kick up, just a bit. It had been several years since I'd seen my best friend, and I was looking forward to see her again, though I'd left half my heart in the crime lab. Not as literally as the victim in Nick's most recent murder, perhaps, but all the same.  
  
I'd told her that I could take a cab to her place, but she wouldn't hear of it, and the sight of her standing by the baggage claim made me stop making up morbid jokes. "Rachel!" The short blonde waved frantically back at me from across the airport, maneuvering through the crowds effortlessly.  
  
"Sara! You look good! Considering you just got off a plane, at least," she added, and I snorted at her. She stood back and examined me critically, taking in the untucked tie-dyed t-shirt and faded jeans I'd worn for the plane ride. "But you have to stop wearing those shirts."  
  
"What's wrong with my shirts?" I pretended to be offended for a minute before grabbing her and swinging her around in a circle. She rolled her eyes before hugging me back. "Thanks for coming to get me," I said casually, then muttered a quick, "I missed you."  
  
"I missed you too." She stood there and smiled at me for a moment. I *had* missed Rachel--we'd met at Harvard, and had seen each other frequently since. She now made her home in California--only a six hour drive from where I used to work in San Francisco, and too far from Las Vegas.  
  
"I'm not letting you take me shopping." My words signalled a return to our normal friendship, where we were almost as stingy with displays of affection as your stereotypical back-slapping guys.   
  
"That's what you always say. I bet you that in four days I'll have you down at the mall--*and* that you'll have bought something."  
  
"Which I'll never wear." We kept up the banter as I retrieved my luggage and we walked towards her car.  
  
As we got in the car, I asked about her job at the local pharmacy, which seemed to be going well; she asked about my brother's marriage, which wasn't going quite so well. We were halfway to her house before she brought it up--I mentally congratulated her, because if something's on her mind, she usually can't let it lie for five minutes. "So what's the real reason you suddenly decided that you had to see me?"  
  
"Would you believe me if I told you that I'd realized I had been suppressing my love for you all this time, and that I just had to let you know the truth?"  
  
She whacked me on the arm. "You tease," she kidded. "Something happened at work, I take it?"   
  
"Something like that." I had no real intention of not telling Rachel about my ulterior motive for this vacation, but now wasn't the ideal time to get into it. "I'll tell you about it this evening after a few glasses of wine. It isn't as interesting a story as you're thinking, I'm sure."   
  
"If you're suggesting wine, I take it you aren't pregnant," she deadpanned.  
  
"Not unless it was the work of angels, I promise you." Her comment had reminded me of something, though. "Uh, Rachel, I did tell you that I was a vegetarian now, didn't I?"  
  
"I'll tell the cook ixnay on the pig with the apple in its mouth, then. Yes, you told me. Something about some guy and a dead pig?"  
  
I choked. "Exactly." She caught my reaction and looked at me sharply, but let it drop. I encouraged her to talk about herself for the rest of the drive, assuming that she didn't have anything to talk about that would require lubrication with alcohol.   
  
"I can't believe that you took so much time off work," she said, grabbing a suitcase and pulling it awkwardly towards her front stairs.   
  
"It's only ten days," I reminded her, hauling my remaining bags out of the trunk. "Most people wouldn't consider it excessive."  
  
"If it were anyone other than you, no. You seem to think that the lab will fall apart without you, though."  
  
"I do not!" I couldn't see her face, but I knew that she was smirking at me. "I happen to enjoy my job," I said grouchily. "Most people would consider that a good thing."  
  
We eventually got my suitcases into the guestroom, and by that time I was fairly exhausted. "I think that I'll just take a short nap before dinner, if you don't mind."  
  
"Of course not--but you aren't getting out of telling me why you're here!"  
  
"Wouldn't dream of it," I muttered, already half asleep. 


	2. All Talk, No Action

A/N--I make no false promises. This chapter is 90 percent dialogue, as per the title. I've rated it PG, even though there's nothing objectionable in here--slight references (in dialogue) to mature behaviour and some drinking, I suppose. I'm just not Corrupting the Children fast enough. Curses!  
  
It was working, this vacation. For the first time in months, I slept hard and dreamless. I didn't wake with my arms twined round a pillow, clutching as though to a lifeline. Perhaps it was the distance, or maybe the fact that it wasn't my bed. The sleepy tenor of my thoughts changed at the rap on my door. "I'm awake, I'm awake," I called before Rachel could open the door or call my name.   
  
"Dinner's going to be ready in ten minutes, so whatever you're doing, be quick about it."   
  
I sat up and shook myself. "Ten minutes? Way to give me time to shower." I'd been so tired earlier that I hadn't even thought about it, but now that I was rested, the idea was too appealing to pass up.  
  
"You don't have to put on makeup, Sara. It's only me." I snorted, picturing my friend smirking on the other side of the door.  
  
"Well, in that case I'll forgo my Luscious Lemon lipstick so that I won't keep you waiting."  
  
"All right, I'll leave you alone then. And Sara? Yellow isn't a very popular lipstick colour."  
  
I was sitting at the table, hair still damp, thirteen minutes later. "That's too bad. I was thinking there could be a whole line of products...Jolly Jaundice?" Rachel mimed throwing a breadstick at me. "Be nice, or you'll never get the dirt from me," I said between bites of vegetarian lasagna.  
  
"You have dirt? My stars and garters, day is night and night is day! So what's this big secret?"  
  
I took a sip of wine, "It isn't a secret, Rachel." I shrugged, "I just needed to get away from work for awhile."  
  
"Sara, that's like me saying 'I need to get away from oxygen for awhile'. What happened? I suppose you didn't get tired of dead bodies. Trouble with your boss, then? Or is it a guy? Did they promote someone younger and prettier over your head?"   
  
"Two out of three."  
  
"Your boss promoted soemone younger and prettier?" I shook my head, trying not to laugh. Rachel could always tell when something was bothering me, and she was making it easier for me to talk about it by not being deadly serious. "A younger, prettier guy was promoted over top of you?"  
  
"What's with your obsession with people who are younger and prettier than I am? Are you calling me a hag?" My glass and lasagna were both over half done.  
  
"Of course I am, dear. So which isn't it?"  
  
"Nobody was promoted ahead of me." 'Yet', I thought but didn't say. And I'd never really given thought to whether or not Nick was prettier than me. I wasn't about to start now, at any rate.  
  
"Ah, so it's your boss and a guy?" Her eyes lighted, "Your boss is...secretly sleeping with the mailroom boy, you caught them, and he bought you off so that you wouldn't tell anyone. Now guilt is eating at you from the inside out, because you know that your boss has lovers in twelve states. I can see it now! 'The Check Is In the Mail Guy--The Sara Sidle Story'. Now which actress would you play you..." She pretended to be giving this question serious consideration.  
  
"Rachel, that pun doesn't even make sense," I grumped. "It's not by boss AND a guy. My boss IS the guy!"  
  
Her eyes widened, "You didn't!" She kindly refrained from adding that this would make an even better movie of the week than gay blackmail, in her books.  
  
"That's sort of the problem. No, I didn't. I just made an attempt in that direction."  
  
"You tried?! Did you try to seduce him? Details! Start from the beginning!"  
  
"No, I--uh, this is kind of a long story. Maybe we should move into the living room." The chairs in the kitchen were even less comfortable than those in the police station waiting room, and I hadn't thought that was possible. Rachel might have impeccable fashion taste, but she could use some help in the decorating department.  
  
We cleaned up and relocated quickly. "Please tell me one thing. Is he married?"  
  
I laughed. "Married? No, it's more that he's possibly even worse when it comes to dealing with relationships than I am." I held up a hand, "*No* sarcastic comments!" I put my hand over my eyes for a minute, "I can't believe that I'm telling you this," I groaned. For so long I'd been hyperconscious of anyone guessing. I treated it like a deadly secret, and to be talking about it now was a relief, but harder than I'd anticipated. Rachel was watching me inquiringly, so I coughed and continued. "I might've mentioned him to you--we met not long after I got out of college, at a seminar. Gil Grissom?"  
  
She thought for a moment, "Mm--the name doesn't ring any bells." I was obscurely relieved that I hadn't gushed about him at the time and forgotten it.  
  
"Right, well, he was the one who got me the job out here--I think I told you a bit about that."  
  
"Yes, you said that a CSI there was killed so the supervisor there knew you and called you in, but you never said his name." She paused. "Or that you had a thing for him."  
  
I flushed. "You're making it sound like I'm fourteen! I wasn't interested in him then--didn't think about him like that until I came back. We were--we were friends at first, you know?" I leaned my head against a fluffy couch cushion. "I liked him, he liked me, and we got along very well. But then I started to--well, you know." I didn't want to verbalize 'I started to get the hots for my boss'. "I guess he picked up on something, because there was tension there, and we couldn't talk like we used to. That just made it worse. We'd get into stupid arguments, or I'd take something that he said too personally. Oh, I'd rationalize it, but suddenly--everything he said to me took on this--this importance that it hadn't had before."   
  
I was about to make a self-deprecating remark, but Rachel just nodded. "That makes sense. So did you do anything?"  
  
I smiled wryly, "Mm--not really. It was just--tension in our friendship, and I hoped it'd go away. At first, it seemed like it'd be too hard to do anything about it even if he did feel the same way. He was my boss, and usually--well, you remember. The guys that I've dated have generally been the opposite of me, or else nothing would ever have happened. It's like Grissom and I--we could stare at each other across a blood sample for hours, but neither of us would ever do anything."  
  
Rachel poured me another glass of wine.  
  
I shrugged. "So, I figured--I like this guy, but it'd be too hard, with the work situation and everything. It'd fade. So I dated a paramedic for awhile. Once that ended, I--well, it was worse." I spread my hands in a gesture of resignation. "All of a sudden I didn't have an excuse anymore. It didn't fade. It's not that I was spending every moment thinking about him, but it was always there, like a wart."  
  
"Your talent for romantic metaphors continues to amaze me." I smiled a little.  
  
"Yeah, well, that's me." I left out the hours of agonized analysis I'd done on the subject. "So I asked him out. He said no." Her mouth twitched in what I presumed was empathy, and to her credit, she didn't say something like 'Any decent guy would jump at a chance to date you.'   
  
"When was this?"   
  
"This was a few months ago. After that, things got even worse. He didn't put us on the same cases, and he acts like he's afraid that I'm going to jump him, rip off his shirt, and tell him that I can't live without him."  
  
"Can you?" she asked gently.  
  
I was about to answer, but considered this. "It's not that I can't live without him. It's just...I'd rather...not. It was...a couple of weeks ago, I realized that the more I saw him, the worse it was. I needed a break. And someone to give me some advice, I suppose. So visiting you made sense. And that's why I'm here," I finished, feeling emotionally exhausted by this point.  
  
"You've got it. Now--we're going to figure out what to do about this." She grinned in a way that I found mildly unnerving. "We're going to get that guy for you, Sara. If he's as socially stunted as you--" I flung a pillow at her. "Ahem. I said," she continued, delicately setting the pillow next to her, "that if he tends to be *awkward* in social situations, then he probably isn't indifferent to you."  
  
"Maybe," I muttered. After four glasses of wine, it was easier to believe that he was harbouring a secret passion for me. "But I've made the move. To do anything else would make me look like a stalker."  
  
"You're not going to have to do anything else," she said, as though it were simple. I still didn't like the look in her eye.  
  
"What--oh, Rachel, *no*, I absolutely forbid you to get involved." She assumed an innocent 'Moi?' expression. "Promise me that you won't call up Grissom or contact him in any way."  
  
"I promise you that I won't call Grissom or contact him in any way," she promised instantly. Too instantly. I was not reassured. 


End file.
